The Fundamental Urge
by TheFictionFairy
Summary: The virus needs hosts, but they're all dying out. Mutation means survival, but the carriers won't be happy. Humanity is dead - some people just don't know it yet. Warnings: Very dark, very mature content. Ensemble, multiple shifting pairings. Canon characters only. Season 1 AU.
1. Stirrings

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_**WARNING:** This was written as a fill for LJ's The Walking Dead kinkmeme. It will contain some **very** **dark** stuff, up to and including references to **noncon/dubcon** and possible **underage**. If that's not your thing, turn back now. Also, when dealing with racist characters, there will be some **racist language** involved. You have been warned._

_This version has been edited to comply with ffn guidelines. The full, unedited version can be found in Round 6 of The Walking Dead Kinkmeme on LiveJournal.  
_

* * *

**The Fundamental Urge  
**

By TheFictionFairy

* * *

Chapter One:

Stirrings

* * *

The relative quiet of the humid forest was interrupted by the sudden _thwack_ of a crossbow bolt imbedding itself into the trunk of a pine tree, pinning the neck of a large squirrel to the rough bark. The rodent twitched a few times, tail curling and thrashing, before it went still. Heat blanketed the forest, quiet falling again as if it had never been disturbed at all. Daryl Dixon rose from his crouched position and shouldered his crossbow, eyebrows drawn down in annoyance.

Any other day, he'd say he was makin' decent time – this was his third kill of the mornin', and the position of the sun told 'im it was only about nine – but now, in this time, in this place, and with these people, he'd have to kick it up a notch. Either he got enough to feed everyone and got it back to camp by dinnertime, or he'd have to deal with their whinin' and dirty looks all night.

Daryl wiped his sweaty brow and scowled at the tiny carcass as he approached it, already estimating the value of the animal in his mind. It was barely enough meat to make a meal for two people, and that was only if it was supplemented with whatever canned food the dumbasses back at camp managed to cook up.

Him and Merle were used to skippin' a few meals, but the rest of 'em were pampered rich folk – they got all grumpy without their mineral coffees and organic waters and whatever other bullshit they could be tricked into spendin' all their money on. Far as he cared, they could shove their fuckin' big city tastes right up their asses. He'd seen the way they turned their noses up at 'im the first time he came back to camp with a string of squirrel – like he was goin' around and askin' 'em to eat dog shit. Whatever. Couple weeks, and they'd started diggin' into the squirrel meat just as fast as any hungry dog he'd ever seen. Ungrateful bastards.

The thought of the other people back at camp, combined with the pressing heat, summoned up images of the quarry as it had been the day before, when a few members of the camp – deciding that it was far too hot, even in the shade – had taken it upon themselves to go for a swim to cool off.

Daryl'd gone down to the quarry while they'd been there to refill his canteens. He'd been too busy with that task – and blinded by stubborn pride and derision for these people who'd lived in air-conditioned houses their whole lives – to do anything but glare stubbornly down at his work and retreat as soon as it was done.

But lookin' back now, he could see 'em clear as day. The kids had been splashin' around in the shallows under the watchful eyes of their mothers, but the two blondes – the sisters, Amy and Andrea, not that they'd ever introduced 'emselves to 'im – had been loungin' on the little floatin' island pier out in deeper water. They'd been wearin' bikinis – because why the hell not? It was only the fuckin' apocalypse, might as well work on your tan. They'd been dozin', stretched out in the sun, their boobs barely covered by those teensy little scraps of colored fabric, their creamy legs laid out for anyone to see…

Daryl let out a harsh breath through his nose, leaning against the tree where his kill was still hanging at shoulder height like a morbid Christmas ornament. This'd been happenin' more and more often – he'd been lettin' himself get distracted by these fantasies. One minute he'd be trackin' somethin', and the next, he'd be leanin' up against a tree or a fallen log, goin' at it like a fuckin' teenager. No wonder he'd been bringin' back less game every hunt, all the time he'd been wastin'.

Daryl shifted his weight as he leaned against the tree, uncomfortable. Maybe it'd be okay if the fantasies were just the blondes – Merle hit on 'em all the time – but his big brother would kick his teeth in if he knew Daryl'd been fantasizin' about a nigger woman.

Daryl barked a bitter laugh, shifting uncomfortably. If only the black woman was as bad as it got. But no – Daryl had too much Dixon in 'im for that. He was a twisted sumbitch and that was for sure.

He could just see 'em now – the camp's mothers. The soft, invitin' Mexican woman, who read to 'er kids in a language Daryl'd never bothered to understand. The fidgety short-haired one – Carol – who'd flutter around the edges of wherever 'er daughter played, always nervous about danger. And Carl's mom, Lori – all big eyes and willowy limbs and long hair that he just wanted to wrap his fingers in and _twist_ as he shoved 'er mouth down–

Daryl groaned. He hung his head, the obvious tent in his pants staring up at him accusingly. He was one sick bastard, all right.

Daryl cast a quick look around before dropping his crossbow to the ground. These sudden attacks of horniness were becoming more and more frequent, and harder to control. When they'd first begun, Daryl'd been able to just ignore the feeling until it went away. But now, just a couple weeks later, and Daryl knew his little 'problem' wasn't gonna just up and leave if he ignored it, no matter how much he might want it to. There was only one way to deal with this.

Daryl unbuttoned his cargo pants. He pressed himself even harder back against the truck of the tree, glaring up at the clear blue sky through the branches above him. He wasn't in this to feel good. He just wanted the problem gone, as quick as possible.

Daryl wondered, briefly, what it would feel like to have a woman do this to him. Their hands were tiny, compared to his, and they looked so much softer. He knew what Merle – and the pornos – had to say about how women felt, but the pornos were, in Daryl's experience, wrong about a lot of things. The one time Daryl had actually seen a man fuckin' a woman in real life, it didn't look like she'd been enjoyin' it very much. In fact, she'd been cryin'.

Daryl's paused, thinking. He knew it was wrong – he knew they wouldn't like it, wouldn't like _him_ thinkin' of 'em – but he couldn't help but imagine those two blonde sisters. 'Specially Amy – the littler one, younger and more delicate than 'er sister – spread out like she'd been on that pier, skin lookin' so creamy 'n soft, with sweat beadin' all over 'er body. He could almost picture exactly what she looked like under those tiny purple strips of cloth, using memories of porn stars and the fact that the suit left _very _little to the imagination.

He could picture 'er sittin' up to look at 'im, a droplet of salty sweat drippin' its way slowly between 'er perky, round tits, the same playful little smile on 'er pretty pink lips that she sometimes used when teasin' the kids in camp. They'd run circles around 'er as she threw back 'er head and laughed.

She was so good with the kids, he thought, distantly wonderin' just what the fuck that had to do with anythin' and feelin' a little nauseous because of it. He wondered if she'd ever thought about havin' kids. He could see it now: her, layin' sprawled on his sleepin' bag in nothin' but that little purple bikini, all sweaty and exhausted and smilin' up at 'im, breasts so full they were practically spillin' out of 'er top, belly swollen up, big with his child–

Daryl let out a strangled yell, and then it was over.

Eventually, the electric sensations in his body tapered off, and his desperate sounds quieted. Daryl sat there dazed for a moment, feeling empty. He rested there, covered in sweat and other things, panting harshly and trying to fight down the bile and panic that rose with the knowledge of just what image, exactly, had just gotten him off.

Oh yeah, he was one sick bastard.

After about a minute, he shifted to reach for one of his cleaning rags, feeling pine needles poking into his half-exposed ass where he sat on the ground at the base of the tree. He did his best to wipe himself up, glaring at his lap the whole time.

After he had cleaned himself up as best he could, he grabbed the loose waistband of his pants with one hand and pushed against the rough bark of the pine tree with the other, inching upwards to stand rubbery legs.

Just as he began to re-adjust everything and tuck himself back into his pants, he noticed there was blood smeared on his palm. His head whipped around, eyes narrowing when he realized that the blood of the squirrel he'd killed a few minutes ago was slowly dribbling down the tree trunk.

Its glassy eyes stared at Daryl reproachfully as he stood there, still panting slightly, one hand holding up his undone pants and the other smudged with its blood.

He glared at it. "The fuck're _you_ lookin' at?"

* * *

_Thoughts? Also, I've got a vague idea where this is going, but are there any other characters that anyone is particularly interested in seeing?_


	2. The Stages of Grief

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_**WARNING:** This was written as a fill for LJ's The Walking Dead kinkmeme. It will contain some **very** explicit, possibly **dark** stuff, up to and including **noncon/dubcon** and possible **underage**. If that's not your thing, turn back now. You have been warned._

___This version has been edited to comply with ffn guidelines. The full, unedited version can be found in Round 6 of The Walking Dead Kinkmeme on LiveJournal._

* * *

**The Fundamental Urge  
**

By TheFictionFairy

* * *

Chapter Two:

The Stages of Grief

* * *

Lori Grimes sighed as she rinsed yet another worn shirt in the cool water of the quarry. It was hot and muggy, her fingers were pruney, and her back was aching from the hunched position she had to adopt to get her work done. A few feet to her left, the other women of the camp on washing duty that day – Miranda, Jacqui, Amy, and Andrea – giggled at the story Jacqui was telling about an ex-boyfriend who had apparently tried to pass off his cheating as a surprise threesome. Lori wiped the perspiration from her forehead and looked away, hoping that none of them noticed that she had stopped participating in the conversation when it had taken a turn toward the raunchy.

It wasn't that Lori didn't approve of their stories – she enjoyed them. They made her feel like she was back at home listening to her friends gossip about their love (and sex) lives. But before Shane, Lori had only ever slept with one man. She and Rick – at the thought of his name her heart gave a pang like a too-tight guitar string being thrummed, and Lori wrung the sopping shirt in her hands with more violence than intended – had been high school sweethearts, married young. Lori had lost her virginity to him on their wedding night.

Thinking of it now made the corners of her lips give a slight tug, though whether they were attempting to pull into a smile or frown she couldn't be sure. It had been quick and clumsy – the two of them, fumbling for each other in the dark of their crappy, cheap little apartment, so full of impatience and love and nervous excitement that it didn't even matter that it hadn't lasted very long.

The group to her left burst into laughter again as Lori shook her head and tossed the damp shirt into the half-full laundry basket on her right. She reached over to pull a garment from the pile of dirty clothes sitting on her left, desperately trying to think of something – anything – that she could contribute to the conversation. She didn't have any stories of wild sexcapades or cringe-worthy situations to share. Her sex life had been fairly… mundane.

It wasn't that Rick had been a bad lover – his implacable code of gentlemanly etiquette insisted that it should be _ladies first_, after all – but where Lori's friends described their partners as rough, wild, passionate, or insatiable, Rick was… _polite_ about the whole thing. Apologetic, almost. When he would reach for her in the night (and it was almost always at night), he was always hesitant, eternally asking permission. He preferred to take things slow and gentle, which had been wonderful for her first time – she had heard horror stories from her friends about the agony of having their cherries popped – but after awhile, Lori couldn't help but fear that Rick just wasn't as passionate about their relationship as she was.

Lori's lips did tug into a slight frown at the reminder of just what her marriage had been like in those last few months. She bit her lip and turned her focus toward the garment in her hands – a small, child-sized pair of blue jeans with butterflies embroidered on the hip – to give herself something else to think about. Lori remembered seeing Sophia wearing these jeans the other day. Usually, Carol took care of her own family's laundry, but today she had apologetically asked the others to add it to the 'community' pile. Apparently her husband Ed wasn't feeling well, and she was staying in to take care of him. Lori didn't much like Ed – he was rude, and seemed to like throwing his weight around just to prove he had some – but she wasn't about to begrudge the other woman the chance to spend some time with her husband. Carol and Miranda were lucky that their marriages had made it through this nightmare alive.

When Andrea launched into a story of her own, Amy hung her head, face already pink from hearing the other women's anecdotes. Lori had to suppress a small, sympathetic laugh at that – it wasn't hard to guess that Amy was inexperienced, and slightly uncomfortable being the only virgin in the group, now that the conversation had turned to sex. Lori remembered being 'that girl' in her group – the last one to lose her virginity, sitting quietly while everyone else laughed and talked, wondering about the experience she was missing out on. Though, come to think of it, the feeling had persisted in some areas even after she'd gotten married.

Rick hadn't wanted to do any of the things that Lori saw in movies or read about in trashy magazines - heck, he even shied away from the things her friends said their boyfriends liked. When she had asked him about it, he had said it was because he wanted to make love to her like the lady she was.

The sentiment was very touching, but Lori couldn't help but feel a little left out; especially when even shy, soft-spoken Miranda had something steamy to add.

Well, that wasn't entirely accurate. Rick was no longer the only man Lori had ever slept with. She had some stories now – stories of a grief that ached so deep she felt like she just couldn't _breathe_, the thoughts of _oh God, I'm a widow, I'm too young to be a widow, what about Carl, I don't know how to be a single parent_, the terror of the sudden danger, the stomach-twisting sensation of the world careening out of control in the worst possible way, and the strong, steady, _solid_ hands that helped pull her through the darkness and back out into the world.

No, she couldn't talk about that. Not with these women. Talking about it would make it real, make it _something_ other than the basic, shared comfort that it was. They wouldn't understand. Lori wasn't even sure that _she_ understood.

Lori knew it must be her imagination, but she could feel the coldness from the wedding band she wore around her neck seep into her skin and settle in her heart.

"Oh my God, _stop!"_ shrieked Amy suddenly, her bright blush making her cheeks almost luminescent. "I'm not a prude, but I cannot hear this stuff about _my big sister!_"

Andrea leaned her weight back lazily, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I'm only looking out for you," the older blonde cooed playfully. "This is important advice: _never_ believe them when they say they'll just pull out. Because in my personal experience–"

"_No!"_ Amy cried, looking downright scandalized. She clapped her hands over her ears and stood, backing away from a triumphantly devious Andrea with wide eyes and a still-scarlet face. "_La la la la la,_ I'm not listening, _la la la_, I'm done being traumatized," Amy sing-songed, nearly tripping over herself as she backed away from Andrea's growing Cheshire grin.

It was obvious to everyone that Andrea wasn't done tormenting her younger sister quite yet, but Amy cut her off before she could continue. "_La la,_ I'm not coming back until you stop talking about this, _la la la la la!"_ Amy half-shouted, turning and scampering back up the road toward the main camp. Andrea's clear, warm laughter rang out, echoing off the steep walls of the quarry.

Lori chuckled softly, following Amy's retreat with her eyes until she caught sight of something that made the breath catch in her throat.

There was Shane, hovering just at the bend in the road that led up to camp, shifting his weight impatiently. Amy – still so red-faced she looked heavily sunburned – scurried past him so quickly she probably didn't even notice he was there. Lori didn't miss the way Shane's head swung to follow Amy's path around the bend and out of sight, and it made something almost clench in her stomach. Before she could think too closely on her reaction, Shane shook himself – as if reminding himself of something – and turned back toward the quarry to meet Lori's eyes.

The heat she could feel in his gaze still took her by surprise – for a moment Lori froze, startled by the intensity she saw there. Lori tore her eyes away to glance at the other women, suddenly paranoid that they could feel it too, but they were engrossed in Miranda's story about the time that Eliza had almost walked in while she and her husband were having sex. Relived, Lori looked back to Shane, pacing like a caged animal, muscles coiled and fingers twitching with nervous energy.

When Shane realized that Lori's attention was back on him, he stopped, eyes dragging over her body, lingering on her chest and hips. Lori had always heard that old cliché about 'all-consuming-passion' but she'd never really understood it – she'd never felt in danger of being _consumed_ before. Shane apparently liked what he saw, because he placed his hands on his hips, biceps bulging slightly, and jerked his head towards the woods, the playful glint in his eye daring her to disobey. Lori trembled, unsure.

Another round of laughter from the group to her left made up Lori's mind for her. She threw Shane a short, sharp nod over her shoulder. A grin lit up his face, teeth flashing, and he whirled and bounded back up the road with excited energy.

Lori wrung out the blue jeans and tossed them into her laundry basket, taking care to fluff up its contents so that it looked full. Lori stood, explaining that she was going to hang the clothes up to dry back in camp. She knew the others had no reason to be suspicious of her motives, but that didn't stop her from holding her breath until Miranda made a joke about Andrea scaring away all of the help and being left to do the laundry all alone.

* * *

It took Lori twenty minutes to walk back, hang everything on the clotheslines haphazardly strung up on the outskirts of the camp, and make sure that Carl was being cared for (Glenn was apparently teaching the camp's children how to play an old game of '_Sorry!' _that somebody had managed to drag out into the wilderness).

Apparently, it was twenty minutes too many, because the second she was far enough away from camp, Shane pounced on her, smothering her startled yelp with his hand and dragging her down to the forest floor.

Lori let out a nervous laugh from beneath his sprawled bulk when he removed his hand. "What's the big–?" Her eyes went wide when her comment was swallowed up in a demanding kiss, Shane's teeth tugging at her lips a little more roughly than she would have liked.

Lori pulled back, hands against his broad chest, opening her mouth to protest, to tell him to slow down and take it easier, but Shane's large, warm hand tangled itself in her hair, forcing their mouths back together before she could say anything. A little flustered, not knowing whether she liked this or how to deal with it – Rick had always been so considerate – Lori tried to make a sound, but it came out as a nothing but a muffled grunt.

Misreading her signal, his tongue pushing its way between her lips to conquer her mouth, Shane made his own happy grunting noise in reply. Without warning, the hand that wasn't currently tangled in her hair shot lower, making Lori clench his T-shirt tightly in her hands, completely forget about the creeping apprehension that she had been feeling a moment ago.

All of a sudden, Shane paused. Lori opened her eyes to see him glaring down at her chest, teeth bared in a harsh scowl.

The coldness of Rick's wedding ring once again tried to settle in Lori's heart, but she quickly yanked the chain over her head with a guilty frown of her own before it had the chance.

Her eyes darted back up to meet Shane's once it was safely out of the way. He was staring at her with an inscrutable look, pupils dilated wide, nostrils flared. Lying there, with him crouched possessively over her, muscles tense and eyes dark, Shane looked positively _feral_.

Lori didn't move, suddenly afraid. She wasn't sure what she was expecting to happen – this was _Shane_, for God's sake, he might have been Rick's immature party-boy friend before, but he had proven time and time again that he would do anything to take care of her and Carl. But that _look_ in his eye – that dark, possessive, wild look – gave her pause. She didn't know how to deal with this, feeling like a mouse in front of a lion. Like he could devour her at any moment.

He had been getting more and more like this in the past few weeks. Lori had no context for it – she had no idea of this behavior was considered normal when you had been sleeping together for a little while, and maybe her own marriage was the one that was odd? Did men other than Rick usually get bolder – rougher, more demanding, more controlling – in bed after the first few times?

After what felt like an eternity, Shane finally moved, resuming their previous activities with a growl of impatience.

Lori gaped up at the clear blue sky, struggling to catch her breath and order her thoughts. Before she could think about what was really happening – how different Shane was from Rick, how different Shane was from _himself_ at the moment, how she had been meaning to talk to him about her birth control pills running out soon (before he had pounced on her) – Shane launched himself forward, draping himself over Lori, his tongue shoving its way into her slack mouth to stroke hers. Vaguely, she heard the sound of a zipper being pulled, but before she could do anything but begin to respond to the mind-numbing kiss.

After a few frantic minutes and a rush of blinding, white-hot pleasure, and it was over.

Shane collapsed on top of her, a panting, sweaty mess.

Lori groaned in protest, barely able to breathe. Shane gave her a short, sloppy kiss on the lips, still breathing too hard to engage his mouth for very long. He planted his shaky arms on either side of her limp body as he prepared to lift himself off of her.

Lori tried not to feel disappointed when the expected kiss did not come. Rick always kissed her forehead after they made love.

Lori sighed, rolling off to the side and sitting up. She wiped at her face, cleaning off both sweat and misty tears with one swift motion. Lori took and deep breath and stood, beginning to collect her scattered clothes and dress.

She did not look back at Shane as she walked toward camp on shaky legs.

* * *

_First official sex scene - yay, milestones! Sorry about the wait - I lost most of this chapter when I was mostly done writing it and had to re-write it from scratch. Not sure how I feel about the finished product. Thoughts?  
_

_Next chapter: Carol's marriage has never been perfect, but she can't help but feel that things are starting to get even worse. Intrigued? Review! Your comments keep me motivated and writing. And, as always, let me know if you have any pairings/scenarios that you think might be interesting! I make no promises, but I take all suggestions under serious advisement. Thanks for reading!  
_


	3. An Awakening

_**WARNING:** This was written as a fill for LJ's The Walking Dead kinkmeme. It will contain some **very** explicit, very **dark** stuff, up to and including **noncon/dubcon** and possible **underage**. If that's not your thing, turn back now. You have been warned. In addition to the warnings for other parts of the fic, this chapter contains **domestic abuse**, **mentions of miscarriage**, and **mentions of incest/incest themes (as in canon)**.  
_

___This version has been edited to comply with ffn guidelines. The full, unedited version can be found in Round 6 of The Walking Dead Kinkmeme on LiveJournal, or at Archive of Our Own under the same title and username._

* * *

**The Fundamental Urge  
**

By TheFictionFairy

* * *

Chapter Three:

An Awakening

* * *

Carol gingerly stepped out of the tent she shared with her family around midday, careful not to let in too much light from outside. She didn't want to disturb her husband, who was dozing on the pile of sleeping bags and miss-matched blankets that had become their marriage bed. Bending over to zip up the entrance behind her, Carol winced, feeling the evidence of Ed's insatiability in her more delicate regions.

Ed hadn't been like this in years – not since she had Sophia, and he claimed she "lost her figure." Which was for the best, she supposed – keeping her baby girl innocent was getting more and more difficult by the day. Sometimes it was all Carol could do to make sure Sophia was out of the tent before Ed got frisky.

Carol delicately picked her way to the center of camp to get a drink of water (all the sweating of their previous activities had left her dehydrated and parched), careful to disguise the limp that the persistent aching twinge – to say nothing of the bruises she was sure littered her hips from where Ed yanked at her during their intimacy. She hoped that she had waited long enough, sitting up in bed after Ed collapsed snoring, that none of the children had connected her staying in the tent this morning to her absence in their play. While she was a respectably married woman, she didn't want the children asking uncomfortable questions.

After taking a long swig of water from the coolers on the picnic tables at the edge of the camp's common area – safely boiled under Officer Walsh's watchful eye – Carol turned her eyes to the children. Glenn had been playing with them – some colorful board game that Carol did not immediately recognize – but it appeared Amy had come to relieve him of babysitting duty. Carol watched as Glenn fidgeted and stuttered his way through their exchange, his nervous gaze obviously flicking to the younger woman's chest every few words before guiltily jerking back up to eye-level. Amy did not seem to notice, too busy keeping an eye on the children.

Carol couldn't help the small, sad smile that played at her lips. She had suspected for a little while that Glenn might be smitten with Amy. The girl was young, charming in a witty, talkative way that Ed would never have found attractive, and quite pretty. The two of them were around the same age, and it would be good to see young love blossom – a welcome respite from all the gloom and doom that the past few weeks had wrought. And Amy would not have to worry. Glenn was a good boy. He would treat her well.

After twenty-seven years of marriage to Ed, Carol liked to think she knew a thing or two about relationships – if only so far as to recognize red flags and warning signs.

Ed Peletier had not always been the rough, demanding man that he was today – though Carol knew that most of it was her own fault. He made it very clear that the stress of having to deal with her on a daily basis had worn away his patience, and Carol certainly didn't help matters by making as many mistakes as she did. She tried her best to keep the peace, though.

Ed had been a nice enough young man – not exactly attractive, but appealing enough in a mildly rebellious way. They had both been very young – still in high school – and with dreams of leaving their small-town lives. They had gone on a few dates, tossing around the idea of running away to the city together. True, looking back, Carol could remember seeing the beginnings of those terrible, now-familiar shadows settling over Ed's features at times, but at the time she had been young and too naïve to notice. She had always known he had a jealous streak, but it wasn't until Bobby Campbell had left a note in her locker asking her to prom that Ed had really ever gotten _angry_.

Carol hadn't seen it until it was too late. They had had a date for that night, and Carol had said no to Bobby as kindly as she could, so she thought nothing of the incident when she climbed into the car with Ed. They went out to the lake – as they had done a few times before – and Ed had produced a six-pack of beer that he had stolen from his father. They had shared a few illicit drinks together before, so it was nothing out of the ordinary.

The rest of the night was a blur in Carol's memory. She remembered the taste of warm, cheap beer. She remembered the static-y country music playing on the car's old radio, though she could not remember any of the songs. She remembered sloppy kisses and insistent hands and the sound of a few vague, slurred phrases which sounded distant enough to have come from someone else: _no, Ed, I don't believe in – we're not married, please, no, stop_. She remembered weight on top of her and pinching, stretching, searing pain and heavy breathing in her ear.

She did not remember the ride back home, but Carol remembered stumbling onto the porch that night, drunk on shame and bad beer, as Ed's truck drove away and her mother's pinched voice had told her she was _ruined_. That no other man would have her, and that she had better make sure that Ed married her after what she had squandered on him so foolishly.

Carol shook herself out of bad memories. Her marriage wasn't perfect, but Ed took care of them. He had kept them alive when things had gone bad – gotten them out of the city, made sure that they had enough supplies to survive. That was his duty as a husband. So it was only fair that she should fulfill her duties as a wife.

Carol spotted Miranda striding into camp, basket of washed laundry on her hip, ready to hang for dying, and suppressed a surge of guilt. Normally, should would be at the quarry, doing laundry with the other women. But today, when she had made to leave the tent, Ed had stopped her with a harsh, sleep-hazy "where do you think _you're_ goin'?" as he pulled back the blankets. It was all Carol could do to call to Sophia – already safely outside, thank God – to tell the other women that Ed wasn't feeling well and Carol was staying in to take care of him.

She considered approaching Miranda to apologize in person, but seeing Miranda's husband approach her, Carol thought better of it. The two laughed and flirted, Diego even lightly swatting Miranda's backside when he thought no one was looking. Carol could tell Miranda wasn't hurt by the way she laughed, and turned her back to them – ashamed of her sudden, overwhelming jealousy.

Swallowing down the cold envy in her throat, Carol turned her attention back to the children in the center of camp. Amy had packed up the board game, and was in the process of dealing the ratty deck of cards that someone had scrounged from an abandoned car's glove compartment, the children all watching with rapt attention.

Carol loved children. She had been so happy when Sophia had been born. Her little miracle – that's how Carol had always thought of her daughter. It had taken years to get Sophia, and Carol had wanted a child – something to love and to love her back – so desperately. There were times, over the years, when the only thing that had kept her going through life's constant disappointments had been the hope of a baby of her own. There had been other pregnancies, before Sophia – she wasn't sure how many, because she'd stopped counting them as _real_ until at least the second trimester – but all of them had ended in miscarriage due to injury or accident.

As if sensing eyes on her, Sophia turned around, beaming when she caught sight of her mother. She waved enthusiastically, and Carol smiled back at her, lifting her own hand in response. Sophia excitedly gestured for Carol to go over and join the game.

"Carol! Where'd ya go? Get back here!"

The smiles on Carol and Sophia's faces dropped simultaneously. Carol turned in shame from the resigned disappointment in her daughter's eyes, scurrying back to the tent to take her place at her husband's side before he could become angry.

"Yes, Ed?" she asked quietly, stepping into the tent.

"Shut that thing behind ya and get over here," Ed commanded, sitting up in their bed and giving her the look he put on when he was in the mood to pretend at seduction.

Carol tensed, remembering the unpleasant soreness from before. It was happening more and more frequently as the days went by – and he was getting rougher about it. But Ed was her husband, and if he wanted intimacy, he got intimacy. It was what good wives did for their husbands, and Carol always tried her best to be a good wife.

She sat at the edge of their bed gingerly, unlacing her shoes so as to not get dirt on the sheets. She heard Ed shift clumsily behind her, but managed not to flinch when his hands came upon her shoulders. He rubbed them half-heartedly for a moment, a pale facsimile of caring affection. Carol tried not to get caught up in the wistfulness for the days of their youth, when he actually showed that kind of consideration for her, but she did not entirely succeed.

As soon as her shoes and socks were off – just as she had begun to let her guard down and lean in to Ed's touch – he chuckled and leaned forward, hands wandering down her front to paw at her chest. Carol stilled, trying to focus on the sensation of his large hands kneading at her. If she concentrated very hard, she could pretend it was gentler – one of the dashing men in the romance novels she was so careful to hide from Ed. Maybe that way it wouldn't be so bad. The more intense the fantasy, the more prepared she was.

Ed growled his impatience with her lack of movement and grabbed her shoulders, flinging her down sideways onto the bed and kneeling above her.

"Take 'em off," he ordered her, pointing a meaty hand at her pants.

Carol's hands shook with nerves as she fumbled at the button and zipper of her jeans, eyes wide.

"Shouldn't we – shouldn't we be _careful_?" she asked, clumsily pushing the fabric of her pants and underwear down her legs. Her gaze leapt pleadingly from Ed, to the bag where she knew he had packed some protection – the man had packed almost everything imaginable when he bundled them away from the city in the dead of night, days before the official evacuation orders – and back to his face.

The too-familiar shadow settled onto Ed's features, and Carol whimpered, turning her face away so she wouldn't have to see the blow coming. Pain bloomed along her jaw, but she knew better than to react.

"I ain't wearing anything, so you can just forget that right the hell now," he declared, grasping her unresisting knees firmly in his hands and pulling them wide apart. He squeezed them once before letting go, knowing that Carol knew better than to try and move from where he had positioned her. She lay there – open and exposed and aching from the blow to her face – and let him do what he would.

"Haven't I been–" Ed groaned as Carol winced and blinked back tears, "– a good husband? Didn't I get you and the girl outta Atlanta? Yeah – I got ya both, got ya both out," he panted. "Got ya to, to a safe place – food, an-and people, and–" he gave a long, stressed grunt and picked up his pace a bit. Carol was thankful that he had let her keep her shirt on this time. That way she didn't have to hear about how she wasn't as attractive as she used to be.

"I, am, a, good, husband," he grunted. "And it's your – your duty, to, to take it like a good wife." He leaned forward, pressing his considerable belly into hers as he muttered into her ear: "I can knock you up if I – if I damn well want to. Not – not like, like you're good – good for much e-else. You, you never looked so good as when, when you were bare – barefoot and pregnant." After that, he seemed to loose interest in speaking to her.

After a little while, Carol thought she could hear some endearments spoken under Ed's beath. Carol lifted her head a bit, suddenly brought back into the moment from where she had mentally retreated. He hadn't called her those things since before Sophia. When he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like the "c" word, Carol stiffened, taken by a wave of confusion, shame, and fear – he only ever called her names when she had done something wrong and she could expect punishment.

Ed was too far gone to notice Carol's terror. "Yeah – you, you'd like that, wouldn't – wouldn't you? You like, you like babies. Could – could use another, now that, the other – other one's growin' up. Now that, that Sophia–" Ed cut himself off abruptly, seized by his end.

The sound of her daughter's name on Ed's lips as he finished, face twisted in a mask of rapture, made Carol feel sick.

* * *

When Carol scrambled out of the tent for the second time that day, she made no effort to be quiet. After he was finished with her, Ed had unceremoniously rolled off of her and gone to sleep.

Carol didn't know what to do with herself – she was terrified and disgusted. She stumbled up the road toward the highway, knowing that no one wandered that way if they could help it. She wanted nothing more than to be alone – to cry, to pray, or to vomit, she wasn't sure.

She limped a bit further up the road, not seeing much more through the blur of her tears than the vague outlines of the abandoned cars that lined it. Exhausted and too sore to walk any further, Carol collapsed against an empty truck. It wasn't until she heard the strangled gasp from inside the cab that she knew she was not alone.

With a quiet cry, Carol flung herself away from the truck, rapidly blinking away tears as she drew breath for a louder scream, praying that someone would hear her and come to rescue her before she was bitten.

Seeing wide brown eyes staring back at her from a healthy, familiar face, Carol faltered, frozen and unsure. She and Glenn stared at each other in shock, both clearly surprised that this normally abandoned stretch of road suddenly contained another person. The moment hung suspended as they studied one another. Carol, with her lip swollen and clothing askew, tear tracks on her cheeks. Glenn, sitting in the cab of an abandoned pick-up truck, hair damp and covered with a sheen of sweat, hand shaking in his lap.

The spell was broken when her eyes landed on Glenn's lap. The young man gave a helpless whimper.

Carol was a good wife – she had never cheated on her husband, no matter the ample evidence she had of the things he did with other women – and her only experience with pornography was with trashy novels.

She shifted her weight uncertainly as she stared at the young man's groin, the tip of her tongue snaking out nervously to touch the tender swelling of her lip. At the sight of it, Glenn gave another helpless whimper and shuddered. Startled by the sudden motion, Carol's gaze flew to meet his. Glenn closed his eyes and groaned in powerless shame, tilting his head back so that he wouldn't have to meet her eye.

Carol was spellbound. She watched the bob of Glenn's throat as he swallowed, a single bead of sweat tracing a slick trail down from his Adam's apple to his shirt.

Not knowing how or why, Carol was suddenly beside the truck, flinging the door open. Again Glenn froze, eyes flying open to stare at her in terrified shame.

Carol leaned forward, driven by jealousy or defiance or something else that burned hot in her stomach and felt suspiciously like rage. She could see Ed's face – feel all the bruises, taste the bitter lies on her tongue that she offered up to doctors and nurses, smell the scent of cheap women and booze on his clothes. The sound of her daughter's name rang in her ears, twisted by sick pleasure.

With all of that and so much more in her mind, Carol kissed Glenn firmly on the mouth.

Glenn, for his part, was still frozen in shock, but she could feel his body jerk when she purposefully brushed her tongue against his closed lips. Undeterred, Carol reached down and took hold of what she wanted.

Then everything was a blur of moaning and whimpering, skin and hair, teeth and lips and tongues... and then it was over and she could suddenly feel the tears slipping down her cheeks again.

His head collapsed into the crook of her neck as he panted and trembled, his harsh breaths cooling the sweat on her skin and making her shiver.

Everything snapped back into painfully sharp clarity, and, with a sinking stomach, Carol realized what she had done.

Carol Peletier ran away back to camp on faltering legs, ignoring the confused cries of the boy she left behind.

* * *

_**Note:** As I could not find any canon mention of Morales' first name, I have settled on calling him Diego._

_I am SO sorry that it took so long to update - I will do my very best not to let it happen again. Thoughts on Carol's characterization, the unusual pairing of Carol/Glenn, or the writing in general? Please keep in mind that the characters who get together will not necessarily be the characters who stay together.  
_

_Next chapter: some love for a few characters that don't get much attention in fic.__ Intrigued? Review! Your comments keep me motivated and writing. And, as always, let me know if you have any pairings/scenarios that you think might be interesting! I make no promises, but I take all suggestions under serious advisement. Thanks for reading!_  



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